


Roten Kardinal

by ritsuko



Category: Sleepy Hollow (1999)
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Blood, M/M, Nipple Play, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 09:22:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ritsuko/pseuds/ritsuko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ichabod finds himself somewhere he shouldn't be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roten Kardinal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadySlytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySlytherin/gifts).



It's happened again.

Ichabod finds himself blinking groggily awake in front of the Tree of the Dead, the stench of moldering leaves all around. The ground feels slimy and cold underneath his feet, and he swallows audibly. 

A week has passed since the horseman was put to rest, since the witch had been taken through the portal to whatever lay on the other side. Her hand has long since disappeared, much to the man's relief.

But there is a lingering feeling of something being terribly not right.

This is the third time that he has woken to find himself here. Never before in his life has he been prone to sleepwalking, but now, for whatever reason it keeps happening. Ichabod doesn't want to tell Katrina, doesn't want to worry her. She has been so busy making the final preparations in selling the Van Tassel home, in light of everything that has happened in Sleepy Hollow. The constable hopes that she will enjoy a new life in the city, with him.

But until that is a reality, they will stay for the time being. 

That means more rude awakenings in the middle of the woods. The boughs of the old gnarled tree creak in the light wind. With a shiver, Ichabod turns, searching out the path back into the town with only the hazy light of the moon to guide him.

Something screams in the night, and he falls to the ground, terror stricken. _It's nothing_ , he rationalizes. _Just an owl. . . or. . . something normal. Probably._

_Hopefully._

He casts a glance back at the tree as the ground starts to saturate his knees through his nightgown. The smell of rotting leaves is overwhelming the closer that he gets to the earth. Slowly, he gets back to his feet, feeling cold to the marrow of his bones. Nothing to do but go back to his nice warm bed. Perhaps he can persuade Young Masbath to draw him a bath. . .

Suddenly, the wind picks up, and the leaves rise from the ground, swirling around him in a mad dance of invisible energy. He cries out, flailing in the impromptu storm of leaves as they slap against his body. Nothing can be seen through the leaf filled air, although Ichabod takes several tentative steps forward, in hopes that he will make his way to a less stormy area.

Only after several steps, he thuds into something, Strange, as it doesn't feel like a tree, and there really shouldn't be anything else in the clearing. . .

The wind dies, and all of the leaves flutter to the ground. Ichabod blinks, looking at the black clothed chest in front of him. There is a feeling of dread as his gaze is drawn upwards.

Cruel eyes. Wild hair. Razor sharp teeth. 

Ichabod falls back, gasping in terror.

The Horseman.

"Da bist du, kleiner Vogel. Ich habe Sie erwartet." The Hessian's voice is a deep baritone, rich and thick, like a heady ale. The other man doesn't know what he is saying, but it sounds ominous. The razor sharp points of his teeth glitter in the moonlight like broken glass.

"He. . . hello. I. . . didn't imagine that I would ever be seeing you again." Crane looks from side to side wildly for some form of escape. He can see none, and the Horseman starts to close in on him.

The Horseman grins, looking much like a wolf trapping a lamb. "Haben Sie Angst? Sie sollten sich freuen. Immerhin, ich habe ein Geschenk für dich." He reaches out a hand, and that's all it takes for the other man to lose his courage. Spinning on his heel, he bolts.

And slams immediately into the Hessian's large horse.

The other man is on him before he can do anything. "Wo denken Sie, Sie gehen, kleiner Vogel?" A hand wraps around his throat, and Ichabod whimpers."Sie müssen nicht fliegen von mir."

The smaller man struggles in the Horseman's grasp, whatever is about to happen isn't going to be good. He can't stop thinking of Lady Van Tassel's fate. The last thing he wants is to be spirited off to hell.

The last thing he expects is a ripping sound, and cold air along his back. He lets out an undignified squawk as he feels the other man's free hand caresses his buttocks. "What are you doing, sir?!"

"Solche blasse Haut, meine kleine. Es wird schön mit meine Noten auf sie schauen." The Hessian croons, and without warning, leans his mouth down to bite Ichabod's shoulder. Pain blossoms through him and he cries out. Something warm trickles down his back, and he knows it's his own blood.

"Please. . . stop." Ichabod states weakly, but the Horseman's hands wrap around him, one teasingly flicking at a nipple, the other slowly trailing to the conjecture between his legs. The man squirms, but the other's grip holds him fast like iron shackles. Crane's head falls forward into the horse's withers and he whimpers.

The Hessian's fangs release him, and it seems as though the demon is admiring his work. "Ach, meine schöne Taube, wie Sie in einem schönen roten Kardinal einzuschalten." 

With a groan, the smaller man wishes that he could understand the other. The words have a soothing edge to them, but the man's dark grating tone in guttural German are more frightening than anything. He can feel the blood dripping down his back, and the Horseman thankfully stops tweaking his nipple, running his fingers through it. 

Then they go lower.

"Sir, I must insist that you stop this instaAAAAAAAAA-" Ichabod's voice breaks off into a scream as a blood slicked finger slowly pushes past the ring of muscle between his cheeks. Unrelenting, that digit continues until it is buried to the knuckle. The Horseman is continuing to whisper German words in his ear, but the other man can barely even begin to comprehend what they sound like. At some point the other hand has made it to his cock, shamably stiff under the other man's ministrations. The finger starts to piston in and out of his hole, and it is incredibly noticeable when he adds a second.

Ichabod groans, fully aware that his face has become wet, and if not for the horse in front of him, he might not be standing at all. His legs are trembling between the one hand stroking along his shaft, and the other spreading him open behind. _This cannot be real. . . this cannot. . ._

The fingers vacate him, and he heaves a sigh of relief. But it doesn't last for long, when he feels something fleshy and hard probe between his cheeks.  
"Du hast mir meinen Kopf zurück, und jetzt wird euer Lohn erhalten, mein Liebling." The hand in front continues to tease his shaft, and gasping, Ichabod futilely tries to squirm away.

"Please, do not do this!" Crane screeches indignantly, as that flesh pushes past unyielding muscle, parting it with a force to strong for the man. The air escapes his lungs as the Horseman slams in, testicles flush against his buttocks.

Bleeding. He is definitely bleeding. Ichabod's eyes roll back, head lolling back onto the Hessian's shoulder. He is large, very, very large. Never before has the smaller man ever thought of doing such and act with another man. As a constable, he has seen many things in the darkness of the boroughs of New York. Bodies in the gutters, opium dens full of whores and addicts. Women and men performing various acts while under the influence of drugs and alcohol, or just to get a spare penny. As the Hessian's cock throbs in his tight channel, he doesn't understand when they would do such things.

Then the Horseman rocks into him, and touches something. Crane can't stop the moan of pure pleasure that spills from his mouth, cock that had been flagging stiffening up again. Yes, it still hurt. . . but now. . .

The phallus recedes, and then slams back in, hitting that golden spot. In his peripheral, he can see the Horseman grinning madly, next to his ear as he continues to grumble soothingly in German. Before long, his hips are trying to keep up, meeting each thrust to the best of his ability. Each time, he feels like he is being impaled, like he is dying, like he will be dragged to hell when the Horseman is done, his slave for an eternity.

The pace quickens, and Ichabod gasps, senses dulling save for the white hot feel of that cock ravaging his spasming ass. Both of the Hessians hands are gripping his hips with enough force to shatter bone. It hurts.

It feels amazing.

"Singe, mein hübscher Vogel. Singen für mich." The other croons in his ear, a split second before spilling into him. Ichabod screams, a long pealing note that seems to last forever. He's vaguely conscious of his own release spattering thickly on the horse's side. The Hessian milks out his orgasm in his constricting ass, filling him to the brink until he can feel semen cascading down the back of his legs. 

The Horseman snickers behind him, murmuring in his ear. "Ja, mein kleiner Liebling, du bist mein jetzt." Then, he sinks those teeth back into Ichabod's tender neck. His world comes crashing down, and everything goes white.

**Author's Note:**

> Rough translations for the German spoken:
> 
> 1\. "There you are, little bird. I have been expecting you."
> 
> 2\. Are you afraid? You should be pleased. After all, I have a present for you.
> 
> 3\. Where do you think you're going, little bird? 
> 
> 4\. You mustn't fly from me.
> 
> 5\. Such pale skin, my little one. It will look lovely with my marks upon it.
> 
> 6\. Ah, my pretty dove, how you turn into a lovely red cardinal.
> 
> 7\. You gave me my head back, and now you shall receive your reward, my darling.
> 
> 8\. Sing, my pretty bird. Sing for me.
> 
> 9\. Yes, my little darling, you are mine now.


End file.
